


Evangeline at the End of Days

by kalliel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, F/M, Last Night on Earth, Phone Sex, phone sex shouldn't be this hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-07
Updated: 2010-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 09:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4298913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalliel/pseuds/kalliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the last night on earth, and Chuck Shurley isn't going to die alone. But after dialing the phonesex hotline, he gets more than he bargained for. </p><p>Missing scene, 5x22 "Swan Song."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evangeline at the End of Days

"I'm a prophet of the Lord." It sounds stupid when he says it out loud. On the page it--well. It didn't look _that_ bad, did it? 

Great, now he's having second thoughts. Phone sex isn't supposed to be this hard.

"I am a prophet of the Lord," he says again. It's all in the delivery. A pitch-perfect execution will turn backlot chaff into written gold. That's what his playwriting teacher told him, anyway; but that was before he'd turned in his final script. Castiel may have told him, too.

After a pause, and stifled laughter: _"Yeah, and I'm fucking Moses,"_ the voice on the other end croons. Deeper than Chuck imagined--her name is Evangeline!--and possibly male. Chuck's hope plummets to subzero levels. It takes skill to strike out when you're on the phone with a sex service.

But Evangeline keeps right on going, unfazed. _"So prophet, is your name Moses?"_

Chuck sighs. He's not good at the whole role-playing thing. "It's Chuck." He tries not to sound miserable; he hates it when people think he's looking for pity; or prepubescent; or actually gay and closeted, and so far in the closet he's paying for phone sex with _girls_.

 _"You're reading a pretty avant garde Bible, Chuck,_ " says Evangeline.

"Tell me about it. Michael's a dick, we're all going to die, and God doesn't care. It's the end of days and I have to sit here and take notes about the damn thing. It's depressing, if you want to know the truth," he says. He could tell her his entire life story and she wouldn't believe a word of it, so he might as well get it off his chest. His neighbor Phil, after all, had stopped listening. "My hero just drank a Tropicana truck's worth of demon blood and is gonna give his body up to Satan, my angel is useless, and the one guy left to pick up the pieces just got totally sidelined."

Evangeline laughs in earnest this time. It's low and rough, but not unpleasant. _"Imaginative. I like that in a man. But we're not here to talk. Words are only conduits for greater things. Are you ready, baby?"_

Chuck swallows. More scotch, definitely.

_"You're alone. Lying on your couch, your bed--whatever. You're so blitzed, you can't even tell. It's like any other day."_

He's not sure he wants to ask. "What kind of...this is going to be a happy ending for me, right?"

_"Very. Be quiet. Miracles aren't like bolts of lightning; you know that. There's a build up to all good climaxes."_

Chuck settles back into his chair, knocking it left, then right--like he's starting an impromptu boxing match with his desk. Oh well. 

_"It's like any other day. And then--"_ Her voice lilts, and the pause is as seductive as Chuck's Top 10 of _much_ dirtier things. _"There's a phone call. That thing you've been waiting for all this time--outside. On your doorstep. Just open the door."_

Evangeline talks about sex. She talks about willow legs and baby skin, pert breasts, rigid nipples, shoulder birthmarks, soft small scars on her hands. She talks about growing up, and being thirteen and prepubescent; she talks about all the things she told her parents, all the things they thought were lies and ever once believed. She talks about her first fuck (girlfriend's sleepover, parents out of town. It wasn't too bad, but not that great either), and her first romance. Then she narrows the playing field. This is where it gets personal.

She talks about _that first moment_ , when you meet the girl of your dreams, you pass her by on the sidewalk. Then you turn around, take her in a second time.

She's not just a mirage fantasy. She's real, she's there, and she's walking away. This is the part where you turn around, tap her on the shoulder. You blush.

_"But of course you don't. You keep walking. You don't even turn around."_

"Um, why not?" Chuck can't keep himself from interjecting--albeit rather helplessly. This is spiraling _way_ beyond his control.

_"Because you're not that kind of person, are you, Chuck."_

"Well, in my fantasies, I'm not me. Um."

_"Then this isn't your fantasy, is it."_

Oh God. He wipes a hand down his face. "You're not...you're not an angel, are you? Telling me I shouldn't be phone-sexing, I have an Apocalypse to put to prose before the world explodes, I'm Chosen so I gotta be as miserable as everyone else in this story--all that."

Evangeline laughs. The sound is pleasure and amusement, but not derision. Her laugh is a lot of things Chuck wouldn't have expected of his luck. _"No. I'm not an angel. I'm a stripper on weekends and a phone sex operator on school days. I take night classes at Valley Adult School, where I'm studying social service. I'm a normal girl."_

"Oh, is that all?" Chuck says in a small voice. He's a prophet of the Lord, but other than that he's an MFA reject and his high school's star waterboy. That's about it.

 _"I'm a writer, too. And a realist. Lots of my customers hang up because I won't be their Cherry Darling,"_ Evangeline continues. _"But you won't."_

"I won't?"

_"You won't. You've already made it this far; you can't stop now."_

Nice. Parallel storylines where the mysterious character offers cryptic dialogue that can easily be applied to both situations, thereby forcing both audience and character to...accept their role and self-actualize or something. Nice. Classy. Insert adjective here. "Listen, Miss, um, Evangeline. I--I'm a pretty nice guy. I think. I've been told. Well, I can only assume, since that's the one thing... Anyway. I'm relatively certain I'm a pretty nice guy, but this is getting way too awkwa--"

_"Pull out your cock."_

"What?"

_"Pull out your cock, so you can start rubbing out the hard-on I'm about to give you."_

"No?"

_"That's my boy; I told you that wasn't what you wanted. You're waiting for your happy ending."_

Chuck chuckles. See, now _that_ \--that doesn't even sound good in his head. No wonder no one takes him seriously. "And you're sure you're not an angel? Or a--a god, or whatever else they've got up there in the Garden."

_"Pretty sure."_

"Do you believe in miracles?"

 _"Miracles are deus ex machinas."_ Literally. _"Pray one doesn't happen to you--you'll be better for it."_

"I appreciate the whole self-empowerment thing, I do. You're clearly...very self-empowered." Chuck sighs. "But lady, if a miracle doesn't land on my doorstep in the next _week_ , I think I'm probably going to be dead."

_"In your Bible, prophet, you said God was a dick."_

"No, I--"

_"If don't have faith when the Apocalypse is dawning, you can't start believing your miracles start happening. Think about what else you have going for you."_

Great. Well, that's comforting. "Do you have an address?" he asks, hopeful.

_"I am not your miracle. That'll be $434.67, by the way."_

Then she hangs up. Wow. Tagged out stealing second, and he was paying _money_ for it. That's gotta be a new low. In with a whimper, and out with... well, a whimper, Chuck's guessing. He sets the phone back in its cradle and turns toward his desktop.

Then there's a pounding at the door. Chuck looks up.

Under the streetlamp, parked none too neatly, is someone's black Impala.


End file.
